


a rose by any other name

by arexnna



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: Camila's a cutie, F/F, Fluff, Lauren's an idiot, literally so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14560674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arexnna/pseuds/arexnna
Summary: "You're dumb, but the two of you make a cute ass couple."or the one where Lauren's a huge dumbass and manages to spend the first three months of dating Camila without knowing her name





	a rose by any other name

It’s a particularly bad day. The skies are a dull grey, dark clouds looming across the expanse above you, and you’re still warming up from the drizzle that coats your skin. You don’t need a mirror to know that your hair has frizzed up from the rain and that your makeup is likely running down your face, but there’s only yourself to blame for the latter – you’re just way too cheap to invest in some waterproof mascara like Normani advised.

Yet, despite the fact you look like a raccoon, you still stand by your point of not wanting to spend excessive money on fancy makeup when you barely even use it save for special occasions - much like today.

You’d gone the extra mile to do your hair and beat your face for this interview – some bougie internship that’s _supposed_ to help open some doors for you (but wasn’t that what they said about getting a degree? Either way, you’d gladly take whatever comes your way.) – and it had gone... as well as it could have gone. You carried yourself well, spoke articulately, and managed to crack a laugh or two from the woman interviewing you. Your resumé is solid – good grades, ample experience – and the references you provided impressed even yourself.

But after you stepped out, when you decided to hang around and chat with some of the others waiting around for their own interviews, _their_ resumés are _more_ than solid, coming from top colleges with _great_ grades and _of course_ , the final nail in the coffin comes when _Mr. Ivy League_ says, _“Yeah, my uncle helped hook me up with this interview.”_

You’re not a fool – you know this world runs on misogyny and nepotism. So, you leave, hopeless and defeated, only to be physically rained down on.

The walk to the café is a short one – four minutes at best – but it’s enough for your shirt to stick uncomfortably to your skin.

Right now, you just want a hot cup of tea- anything that could warm you up, really- maybe a hot chocolate or a latte, but apparently the universe takes your wishes too literally because you take one step forward and searing heat runs down the expanse of your chest and between the shock and the burn, you can barely even think, nor can you react.

Vaguely, you hear profuse apologies, you see someone fumbling about before you, their hands waving about panicked. When you finally return to yourself, when the shock has set in, you see a girl before you, panic in her brown eyes, her lips mouthing one _sorry_ after another, as she awkwardly holds out a handful of napkins, looking like she’s waging a war between herself on whether or not she should help you or if she should just leave you to it, ultimately choosing the latter.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” you hear. You grab the napkins from her hands, but don’t say anything, too focussed on the fact that there’s the searing pain of hot coffee against your skin, trying to salvage your shirt all the while attempting not to press too hard against the sensitive skin.

“Do you want me to get you some ice? A shirt? What can I—” the girl’s offers are cut short when you hear an angry, booming, _“Are you fucking kidding me, Cabello?”_

You catch how she flinches at that, and on top of the physical pain you feel, a wave of sympathy rises in you.

The manager – you assume from the authoritative way he strides towards where you are, his chest puffed out and his shoulders squared like he owns the place and his audacity to curse at the already terrified-looking girl before you – offers you a quick apology before he tugs her aside.

As annoyed as you are, you step in, putting your hand between them before you say, “Hey, it’s no big deal – I wasn’t looking where I was going. It’s not her fault,” you tell the manager. You don’t look at her, but you see from your periphery that her shoulders relax a little at your words. “But I would appreciate if I could get some help with this,” you gesture vaguely at the mess on your shirt.

He looks between the two of you sceptically, before ultimately nodding once. “Go help her,” he orders before he turns, all but stomping back as if to show his masculinity. You roll your eyes. “And clean up the mess on the floor,” he says as his last words before disappearing into the back.

That’s when she turns towards you. It’s the first time you get a proper look at her face, at her brown eyes, the curve of her lips, the line of her jaw. Her bangs fall unceremoniously, curtaining her face, wavy tresses tied up in a messy ponytail. You figure she can’t be any older than you, and is probably no younger than at least twenty, and you note that she’s Latin both from her features and the tint of tanned skin. Vaguely, you wonder from where, but mostly you’re preoccupied with the fact that you’ve decided that she might just be the prettiest person you’ve ever seen.

Your stare gets caught on how she bites at her lip in thought, her own eyes flickering between you and the crime scene before the two of you, seemingly debating on her next moves.

Luckily for her, you see someone else with the same grey apron as her approach, squeezing her shoulder, saying “I’ve got this, you take care of her,” with a nod towards yourself. You see how relief washes over her face as she sends a grateful _‘Thanks, D,’_ her friend’s way, before she turns towards you, putting on a smile as she ushers you away.

“Again, I’m _so_ sorry,” she says as she walks you towards the back, leading you towards where it reads _STAFF_. “I had a bad day- a bad _week_ and I’ve been really out of it today, and I’m on really thin ice with Alex, and I really appreciate you taking the hit for me and whatever your order is, it’s on me, and I know I have an extra shirt in my bag and—”

You take it upon yourself to calm her down. “It’s okay,” you say softly, a gentle smile on your lips for extra reassurance and she relaxes at that. “I get bad days, don’t worry- it’s been pretty shitty for me so far.”  

_“Well, fuck,”_ she curses, face scrunching slightly as she shakes her head. You can’t help but think she’s adorable. “So, you’ve already had a bad day and a completely incompetent person tops it off by spilling coffee all over you.”

You’re absolutely endeared by her, how she presses her brows in a frown, as though berating herself as she scavenges around her bag for a shirt (presumably), that you momentarily forget that your skin is still sensitive from earlier.

She turns to you with a sweater in her hand – it’s _yellow_ , _mustard yellow_ , and you already _know_ it’s _so_ not your colour, but you take it anyway – as she rambles on, “We look about the same size, besides maybe at the… _chest_ area given I’m not quite as _blessed_ in that area as you are— _not that I’m checking your boobs out or anything, I swear, I just—Anyway,_ it’s a sweater so it shouldn’t make too much of a difference but…”

You kind of tune out, more interesting in how expressive her face is, how her eyes widen, how her cheeks redden and how her lips don’t seem to stop moving.

What she says is, “Again, I’m so sorry- if you wanna file a complaint or a sexual harassment claim since I clearly know no boundaries when it comes to pretty girls, my name’s Camila Cabello, but I’m sure my boss will know exactly who you’d be talking about if you just mention _‘idiot’,_ but _anyway_ , you can change in there, or I can leave and you can change in here while I get you some ice or something that- does it still burn? Should I get a first aid kit or something- not that I really know what would help a first degree burn but—”

But all you catch is, “So, you think I’m pretty, huh?”

You say this with a shit-eating grin, your smirk growing along with the flush that rises in her cheeks.

You figure the poor girl’s been through enough for one day, so you flash her a smile, nodding towards where she’d pointed earlier. “That way?” you ask, going through to the staff bathrooms when she nods. You hear her breath of relief as you close the door and you would feel bad if she doesn’t totally pull the embarrassed look off as cute.

Peeling off your shirt, you lay it on the sink uncaringly. It’s beyond saving at this point – coffee against white usually is – and even though it was one of your better shirts, you’ve no sentimental attachment to it, so you decide it’ll officially become one of your sleep-shirts. Your skin has pinked from the spill, but it doesn’t hurt too much, only slightly if you press on it.

You slip on her sweater. It’s oversized, falling over your shoulders just nicely. You still hate the colour against your skin tone, you don’t think it compliments you at all, but the material is soft and comfortable, and you absentmindedly wonder if she expects it back, because even if you hate how it looks on you, you could definitely use it around the house when no one is there to witness it.

Stepping back to look at yourself in the mirror, you see just how much a mess you look. Your makeup remains smudged, hair still a mess, but _hey,_ the slouchy, yellow sweater kind of does go with your pinstriped trousers.

After cleaning off the runny mascara and attempting to comb through your tangled hair, you emerge to find the girl fidgeting on her feet, seemingly rambling nervously to herself. You wonder if she’s naturally like this, or if it has anything to do with her _‘pretty girls’_ comment. You hope it’s the latter because you really want to take her out on a date.

When you clear your throat to catch her attention, she turns towards you with her mouth slightly ajar, looking you up and down.

“You look cute in my clothes.”

You’re more surprised that she managed the words coherently without stuttering or rambling on rather than by the comment itself.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. You were prepared to _really_ charm her into a date, but now you’re thinking you might just need to ask.

And that’s exactly what you do.

“Do you want to go out on a date with me?”

Her eyes are blown wide, and for a moment, you worry that you were too forward, that maybe she isn’t even into girls- but then you remind yourself that she’d shamelessly checked you out less than a minute ago, and your confidence returns. Besides, your day is already bad – you’ve nothing to lose, and only a date with a pretty girl to be gained.

Her mouth opens and closes, fumbling for an answer. Your confidence begins to falter once more, but then— “A date? With you? _Yes._ Wait, like a _gay_ one, right? Not a _friend_ date? Because I am- _gay,_ I mean. Well, more like _pan_ , but mostly girls, because girls are just so—”

_There it is,_ you think at the re-emergence of her stuttering self.

You take her wildly gesturing hands in yours, noting how soft they feel in your hold. It stops her rambling immediately. “When are you free? We’ll work around your schedule,” you tell her, lips painted in a reassuring smile as you hold her stare. You decide then that her shade of brown is your new favourite colour.

“Um- yeah, I’ll have to check when my shifts are but—” It’s her who stops herself, her mouth hanging slightly as she looks at you. “I’m sorry,” she shakes her head out of her stupor, “It’s just you’re really close right now and you’re like _really_ pretty and I can barely think and— _are your eyes even real?”_

You can’t help the grin that grows on your lips, but you take a step back anyway, giving her some space to breathe. “How about I give you my number and you text me telling me when you’re free?” you suggest and she nods eagerly at that, quick to reach for her phone and pass it to you.

After you type in your number, saving it under _Lauren Jauregui,_ you pass her phone back, having to bite down on your smile as she reads out your name under her breath.

“I’ve got to head out now, but text me, okay?” After she replies with a nod, seemingly stunned into silence. You flash her a soft smile, “I’ll see you again, hopefully.”

You leave the café with different clothing, a first degree burn, without a drink, but with a pending date. The drizzle has stopped, the skies cleared of grey clouds and the evening glow of the sun feels warm against your skin. You’re pretty sure this all means something, but all you know is that your day isn’t so bad anymore.

 

When you get home, you find Normani on the couch, squinting hard at you, clear confusion marring her features.

“Since when do you wear yellow?”

You can’t help the grin you wear. “I don’t,” you tell her before you head over towards her, settling on the opposite end of the couch.

By the time you finish recounting your day, Normani has a proud look on her face. “You are one hell of a woman, Jauregui. Gotta give you that,” she says approvingly. “Has she texted?”

You check your phone - save from a couple notifications from your email and Instagram, there’s nothing else. (You’re too preoccupied with thoughts of _her_ that you don’t even react to the email telling you they’re offering you the internship.) You don’t let yourself worry though, “She’s probably still working,” you reason.

Normani nods in understanding, then a smug smile paints her lips. “You’re already so whipped for Latina with a booty,” she winks, poking at your side with her toe.

You roll your eyes at that, slapping her foot away. “Am not,” you argue, “And can you not call her that? She has a name and it just makes me sound super misogynistic like I only see her as an object.”

Normani shoots her hands up in defence, “My bad, babe,” she apologises, “You didn’t mention a name.”

“Well, it’s—” You pause - you can’t remember if she said her name. You rack your brain for memories of an introduction. “It’s…” You remember the curve of her lips, the deep brown of her eyes, the sharp angle of her cutting jawline, the way her voice rises just a little when she rambles on, but for the life of you, you can’t remember her name. You hum out your realisation and Normani quirks a brow at you. “I don’t think I caught her name,” you admit.

Normani only laughs at that. “Only you would go through all that, ask the girl out on a date and not remember her name, Laur,” she says, shaking her head amused.

“In my defence,” you start, _already_ knowing your _defence_ isn’t going to be a solid one, “She was really pretty and I kind of zoned out.”

_“‘It just makes me sound like I only see her as an object,’”_ Normani parrots your earlier words to you. You’re not sorry for the punch that lands on her arm, nor do you care for the dirty look she sends your way after.

“I’ll find it out soon enough,” you shrug. Normani seems to accept that by the way she turns her attention back to the screen and especially by the way she resumes the episode, followed by a three-minute rant on how the season finale of some show has pissed her off, how someone named Ruby better not be dead.

You’re glad she ends her little rant when she does because your phone buzzes on your lap, and you can’t help the little jump you do when you see it’s from an unknown number.

**_19:23 | hi it’s incompetent-dumbass-who-spilt-coffee-on-your-fancy-shirt girl here_ **

You don’t realise just how widely you’re smiling at your phone until Normani calls you out about it, but you only ignore her.

When you go to save her contact, it only serves to remind you that you don’t know what to save it under. You go back to the chat.

_19:24 | That’s quite the mouthful tho,_ you reply. You’re kind of proud of yourself, deeming your approach smooth and inconspicuous. Until—

**_19:24 | just ‘dumbass’ is fine, then_ **

You _swear_ she had said her name earlier, somewhere in the midst of all her rambling, but you’ve tried and tried and you really can’t recall. At this point, you feel a little too awkward to ask, _‘No really, what’s your name?’_

You save her name under _cutie with a booty._

Before you can even reach for another attempt to subtly fish her name out of her, another text comes through from her.

**_18:25 | so, about that date_ **

_Straight to the point_ , you think to yourself, mildly impressed.

In the end, when she tells you she has a day off tomorrow, you tell her to block off the evening, and even you are impressed by how forward you’re being with this. You’ve never been one to initiate things, always waiting for them to make the first move, but this girl- there’s something about her that makes you unwilling to leave it all up to fate.

The conversation carries smoothly between the two of you. You find out that when she’s not a _(cute)_ rambling mess, she’s actually pretty funny, but it seems like you’re the only one who thinks so. When you show Normani the jokes she sends you after you cave from her questions of _what’s got you giggling so much_ , Normani doesn’t seem the slightest bit amused, only furrowing her brows in confusion as she reads over the texts once more, thinking that maybe she missed the punchline.

By the time she tells you she has to go, it’s almost three hours later, and among the countless texts you’ve sent each other, you still don’t know her name.

You figure you’ll find out soon enough.

 

_‘Soon enough’_ doesn’t even happen by the end of your first date though. _(You say ‘first’ with complete implications that there’ll be more if the way she had pressed a gentle kiss to your lips when you asked for a second one is anything to go by.)_

You picked her up from her place at a quarter past six, ended up with your hand in hers on the walk towards the little pizzeria a couple blocks down where you witness her wolf down her whole plate in record time and still have the space to finish your remaining slices before you lead her towards the park for the outdoor showing of _Grease,_ where she ends up snuggled into you on your shared beanbag, the two of you wrapped up under a single blanket — and _still_ you don’t manage to sneak a name out of her.

You find out it’s actually easier than expected to communicate even without the basic knowledge of, like, _her name._ Turns out, you can go a whole evening without ever having to fumble over the fact you don’t know it, and while hearing variants of _Lauren_ roll off her tongue might be your new favourite sound _(you especially like it when she drags out a ‘Looooo,’ rather petulantly)_ right after the laugh she makes when she finds her own jokes particularly funny, she’s just going to have to deal with not experiencing the same privilege.

You don’t think she minds, though. Not when you greet her with, _‘Hey there, pretty lady’,_ or how you drop a _cutie_ every now and then, or especially when you murmur your _‘Goodnight, baby,’_ against her lips at the door to her building.

She doesn’t mind, you don’t think, not with how the scarlet colouring her cheeks grows a  shade deeper each time.

 

You try not to be too eager - you’ve met her a total of _two_ times now - but there’s something about her that makes you want to be around her constantly. Her company is intoxicating, where all you feel when you’re around her is her- her words, her laugh, her smile.

You try not to be too eager - so you let an entire day pass before you make a move to see her again.

When you step into the café, the smell of coffee wafting through the air, you catch her attending to someone by the counter, a friendly smile on her lips, and even from here, you can hear how chirpy her voice is as she talks to the patron. It’s a stark contrast to her just a few days ago.

You notice how attentive she is to whoever she’s serving, that even when you’re only one order away, she still hasn’t realised you’re there. But she makes up for it with how her entire face lights up when she sees you. Her eyes brighten and her cheeks flush, an uncontainable smile growing on her lips. You can’t help but to mirror it.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,—“ Your eyes dart down to her name tag. _Huh,_ you think. “—Jessie.” You don’t _think_ she looks like a _Jessie_ , but there’s a weight lifted off your shoulders at the fact that you _finally_ know her name.

But it’s only put right back on when she rolls her eyes a second later, when she continues, “Ignore that- I just don’t like the fact that strange men can come in here and know my name without me giving it to them.” If you could, you would smack your forehead against the counter separating the two of you, but you feel like that may raise a few questions. “I’ve just been reusing previous employees’ name tags,” she tells you, proud smile on her face, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s only elongating your suffering.

You consider just _asking_ her, but you’re already in too deep for it _not_ to be embarrassing if you simply said, _‘But what_ is _your name, though?’_

So you dig yourself deeper, smiling and playing along instead. She’ll let it slip along the way, you reason. “A lot of guys try to hit you up, huh?”

She only shrugs modestly, “I think they mistake my friendliness for flirting.”

“You flirt with me, though, right?”

Her lips pull at the corners. She bites down on the pink of it. You’re tempted to lean over and steal a kiss, but for the sake of professionalism, you don’t. _(And again, because you don’t want to seem too eager.)_

“You?” Her smile is infectious. “Definitely.”

You hold her stare for what feels like minutes. It’s probably only a good four seconds, but either way, it’s long enough that another barista from her side of the counter smacks her on the back of her head, calling out, _“Stop eye-fucking each other and take her order already.”_

Honestly, you’re impressed with how quickly embarrassment paints her cheeks pink.

You recognise the source of her embarrassment to be the same blonde girl that had helped her clean up the spilt coffee on that first day. You note the mirth in her tone, the smirk on her lips and judging from their playful manner, you safely assume they’re more than just co-workers.

_“Shut it, Cheech.”_ There’s an attempt for that to be muttered under her breath, but you still hear it.

“Love ya,” the blonde retorts, puckering her lips in a kiss, smacking out an exaggerated _mwah_. Her name tag reads _Dinah Jane,_ and you wonder whether she does the fake-name trick as well.

You figure you’ve been holding up the line for long enough at this point, and from the agitated way the person behind you seems to be tapping his foot, he seems to think so too.

“I’ll get a caramel macchiato, please,” you interrupt when she gets side-tracked in a glare off between her and _Dinah Jane._

“Gotcha,” she nods, passing a cup to the blonde and repeating your order. “Sorry about Dinah,” she apologises. “She may be a part-time barista, but she’s a full-time pain in my ass.” Her voice only gets louder towards the end of her sentence, but Dinah - _you can now confirm is her name -_ just shines an unbothered smile your way.

She doesn’t allow you to pay, insisting that since she _‘owed you from the last time’_ , that she’ll cover it. You kind of want to argue, but the man behind you has been huffing excessively and you’ve _definitely_ held the line up for far too long.

Dinah’s the one to pass you your drink, and as much as you want to hang around and continue talking to her _(being the nameless beauty that you’re already planning for a second date with),_ you don’t want her to be lectured again by her manager and—

_Cabello!_

The memory finally resurfaces, remembering how her manager had yelled that out at her, and while you _know,_ it’s only her last name, that you’ve still got to piece together her given name, you still feel proud of yourself for recalling it.

You use the first chance that arises to make use of this newfound knowledge, calling out, “I’ll see you around, Cabello,” before you make your start to leave.

She perks up at that, waving goodbye as she assures, “I’ll text you once I’m done with work!”

When she’s done with work, she doesn’t _actually_ text you. She just calls you, putting you on the phone with her as she walks home from the café, recounting her whole day and telling you how much she liked seeing you today.

You realise you make the picture of a teenage girl with a crush with how you’re laying on your bed on your stomach, ankles crossed while you prop your chin up against your palm, phone pressed against your ear as you futilely suppress both a smile and a laugh, not that the blush on your cheeks wouldn’t give it all away.

_“Are you sure I can’t plan our second date?”_ she asks. You hear the clatter of keys on her end of the line followed by the sound of a door opening then closing.

“Yep,” you confirm, nodding to yourself. You can already imagine the pout she must be wearing. “You can plan the third one,” you compromise.

You don’t need to be there to know she’s wearing a smug smile at that. _“There’ll be a third date, huh?”_

“That’s up to you,” you say, and at her _‘Oh?’_ you add, “I asked for the first two, so it’s only fair that you ask next.”

She hums thoughtfully. _“Wouldn’t that mean it’s actually up to_ you _?”_

“Nah,” you shake your head, “There’s absolutely no way I _wouldn’t_ say yes.”

It’s quiet for a good minute, pin-drop silence for a handful of moments until you hear: _“Okay, but that was unnecessarily smooth.”_

 

You decide to cook for her for your second date. While you may not be the most skilled cook, you _have_ learned a thing or two from your mother, and after you find out she’s Cuban, you use the first opportunity that arises to flex your own Cuban heritage.

Normani gets kicked out for the evening. With the incentive of free lunch, she leaves your shared apartment without complaints, but instead, with a knowing wink before she shuts the door behind her. You _know_ what Normani’s implying, and while you won’t object to _that_ if it comes to it, you’re not exactly expecting anything.

When she arrives by your door, you’re unable to contain your excitement, all but rushing to see her. She smiles that one smile at you, a soft, _‘Hi,’_ on her breath before she takes a step into you and presses her lips against yours. When you draw apart from her kiss, you have to bite down on your own smile, but when she reaches forward, cupping your jaw in her hand to swipe her thumb across your bottom lip – _“Lipstick,” she explains –_ you let her.

You timed it all perfectly so that when she’d arrive, dinner would be ready, and as planned, after you usher her to settle on the couch, you deliver a hot plate of _congrí,_ served with a side of _tostones,_ to her lap. Despite the plantains being a little _too_ fried, still, she says, “I know I’m just living up to a stereotype here, but _wow,_ do I really already want to wife you up.”

You roll your eyes playfully, instead telling her, “Eat up, and choose a movie or something,” as you pad your way back to the kitchen to grab yourself a plate. “Tell me if you want seconds whenever, okay?” you call out, not even the slightest bit surprised when she asks for more plantains two seconds later.

You end up watching a John Hughes movie when you hear that the only one she’s seen is _The Breakfast Club,_ and you spend the next two hours with her cuddled next to you as you make sure she’s not dozing off from her food coma and that she’s appreciating _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_ for the cinematic masterpiece it is.

By the end of the film, you hear her murmur your name against column of your neck. “Laur?”

You hum your reply, your thumb drawing patterns against the sliver of skin exposed between the hem of her shirt and the waist of her shorts. You’re not exactly sure how you’ve gotten so comfortable with her so quickly, or really when it began _(probably somewhere between the start of your first date and like, the end of your first date),_ but you’re not complaining. You quite like the warmth of her next to you, you like the way she reaches out for you, how she noses your jaw as she snuggles closer into you.

“I really like you,” she says with her lips against your skin. You don’t know whether it’s that or her words that has a shiver running down your spine. You settle on it being a combination of both. She tilts her head up and you meet her gaze, all soft and tender. You lean down and brush your lips against her forehead, feeling her lean into the kiss as she says, “Go out on a third date with me.”

Your lips tug at the corners. “That didn’t sound like a question,” you note after you part, allowing her to see the teasing look in your eyes.

She only shrugs, looking completely unbothered. “No point asking a question I know the answer to.”

 

After that, when you’re back on your hunt for her name, you go for a different approach.

You say random names you think might fit her, hoping she’d respond to them.

When you pick her up for lunch, you casually say, _“Isabella.”_ It takes three seconds for her to react, but she only looks towards you with a furrow in her brow. You throw back a confused look her way and convince her that she must be hearing things. You make sure to cancel that off your mental list.

The next day, after you visit her at work, just as you’re about to leave, you call out, _“Emillia!”_ and when the only person that responds is some girl sitting in the corner of the cafe who looks mildly confused at you _(because trust your luck for an actual ‘Emillia’ be in your vicinity),_ you have to come up with a lie telling the stranger how _“I just saw you and I just_ knew _you were an Emillia!”_ Unfortunately, it makes her think you were somehow flirting with her, and you have to escape the cafe before you dig yourself into _another_ mess.

Understandably, your plan doesn’t quite work. Not when she starts to get _(reasonably)_ jealous of how much you keep calling out other girls’ names when you’re with her, offering no explanation as to what you’re doing.

 

Three weeks pass and more dates come and go. You see her almost every other day, and if you’re not with her, you’re on your phone texting her or already on a call with her. There’s a mutual understanding that she’s your girlfriend and you’re her girlfriend, and neither one of you know exactly _when_ it happened, but it did.

And still, you don’t know her name.

Normani finds it absolutely _hilarious._

She’s been no help on your quest for your girlfriend’s _(your girlfriend!)_ name, simply watching on as you struggle, using your misery as her own entertainment.

“You’re actually _dumb_ ,” Normani says to you, but you’ve heard her say this every day since you’ve met her so you only roll your eyes, huffing before you turn towards her.

“What’s dumb is that she doesn’t have Facebook! Or the fact that she just so decides that her name is _nowhere_ on her instagram!” You point your phone screen at her on _@cabeyy0’s_ profile, the name under her little icon - _a breathtaking picture of her pointing a kiss towards the camera -_ reading _‘kcc,’_ which is what you now refer to her as in your mind.

Normani reaches for your phone, scrolling through until she lands on a picture of you and her. The smile that comes to your lips at the sight of it is involuntary. “You’re dumb, but the two of you make a cute ass couple.”

It’s a post from one of your dates - one that she had planned - taken outside the jazz bar you ended your night at after spending a handful of hours at an art exhibit that she’d brought you to. She’d asked some random person that was passing your table to snap the picture. The flash illuminates the two of you in the dark space of the bar. She sits on your lap, your arm around her waist as she leans her head against yours, bright smiles on both your lips. She captions it _‘oh hey there’_ and tags you. The replies under it are a lot of compliments saying how good the two of you look, with at least three extremely sexually charged comments from none other than Dinah Jane Hansen.

“She’s amazing, Mani,” you can’t help but fawn over her. Your words are soft and dreamy and you know you’re wearing hearteyes, but, really, you can’t be bothered. “I could go on about how she’s witty and adorable and smart, or how pretty and kind she is, but what gets me is how she’s just so genuinely _herself_ , you know?”

There’s a pleased look on Normani’s face. “You’re _so_ whipped for her,” she tells you, lips pulling into a smug smile, and you know there’s really no point in denying it. “And _still_ , you don’t know your own girlfriend’s name.”

_“Ugh,”_ you groan, petulant pout on your lips. “You don’t need to remind me constantly. It’s already awkward enough when mom asks me about her and I have to pretend like I’m _willingly_ withholding what her name is.”

“You’re with her every other day,” Normani starts, “There’s _no_ way no one around you hasn’t mentioned her name at least once.”

“That’s the thing!” you let out, throwing your hands up in frustration. “Dinah’s around sometimes but she has just about a dozen different nicknames for her that doesn’t remotely sound like it could be her name. Like, what name could come from _‘Walz’?_ And _‘Chancho’_ is _definitely_ not her name.”

“Why don’t you just ask--” You’re just about to cut in, reiterate what you’ve told her time and time again, but Normani speaks over you, “--Dinah? Just ask her and I’m sure she’d understand and tell you.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. _“Dinah?_ If I think kcc will not let me live down not knowing her name almost a month into dating, I _know_ Dinah won’t. You haven’t met her, Mani- she’s a _character_ , to say the least,” you say, but your words drip in fondness.

“Well, no shit I haven’t met her- you won’t even let me meet your girlfriend,” Normani retorts, crossing her arms over her chest and you roll your eyes at her childish antics.

“And have you embarrass me? _No thanks.”_

“For how smart you are, you’re actually _really_ dumb.”

You throw a cushion at her, but she just swats it away, unphased as she continues on to say, “If you’d just let me meet her, she’d _introduce_ herself to me, _you idiot.”_

Barely two seconds after Normani’s words are you grabbing your phone, opening her contact _(that you’ve now changed from ‘cutie with a booty’ to ‘baby’)_ and typing out an invitation to lunch tomorrow, telling her, _‘I really want you to meet Normani.’_

She responds less than a minute later with an enthusiastic **_‘sure! can’t wait!! i’ve been wanting to meet her!’_** _,_ and you turn towards Normani with the brightest grin. “And _this_ is why I need you in my life,” you say as you tug her into an embrace that she resists.

You’re so confident with the plan that you even let her, _‘To balance out your stupidity?’_ pass.

 

At lunch the next day, you learn two things.

One: you learn that your girlfriend’s palms get extremely sweaty when she’s nervous. You have to reassure her that Normani only _looks_ intimidating, but she’s actually the softest puppy once you get past that and that she has nothing to worry about, that all Normani cares about is your happiness and since she’s been a huge contributing factor to that in the past few weeks, that she’s in Normani’s good books.

The second thing you learn then is that: Normani Kordei Hamilton is a _snake._

When the two of you meet Normani at the restaurant for lunch, you move to introduce the two of them.

“Babe,” you squeeze her hand in yours reassuringly, “this is Normani. Mani, this is--”

Betting on both her nerves and eagerness, you had guessed she would step in, go off rambling before you could even attempt to finish your introduction. And that’s exactly what happens.

“Oh my god, _hi._ Sorry, I’ve just been super excited and kinda nervous to meet you ‘cause you sound really cool and like, you’re Laur’s best friend, so _duh_ _,_ I need to meet you, and I’ve even stalked your insta and as photogenic as you are, you’re somehow even prettier in person, and really, how is that fair? _But anyway,_ Mani- _Normani?_ What should I call you? _Anyway,_ I’m--”

At least that’s _almost_ exactly what happens.

Because just as you can _feel_ her name being said a millisecond away, Normani Kordei - the person you _thought_ was your best friend - cuts in, stopping your girlfriend right before she can reveal her name.

_“Absolutely no introduction necessary,”_ Normani interrupts kindly before stepping forward to pull her into a hug. You don’t miss the downright _evil_ smirk that Normani casts your way. “I’ve heard _so_ much about you, it feels like I know you already! You’ve got Laur so whipped, it’s amazing, really.”

You manage to wipe off the betrayed look on your face just in time for when those warm brown eyes look excitedly at you, flashing her a gentle smile and nod at her.

The moment the three of you take a seat, your foot just so happens to accidentally kick at Normani’s shins, but it doesn’t quite achieve its intended reaction because she only presses on an unbothered smile as she continues in conversation with your girlfriend.

Normani carries on embarrassing you with humiliating stories from your past, all the while being the opposite of a help to your predicament. Then when you come back from the bathroom after ordering your food, you don’t have a good feeling about the grin that Normani wears, but still you have to sit through most of the lunch with the two of them hitting it off _knowing_ that Normani knows _something._

Later, when it’s only Normani and yourself, your girl having left to take a phone call, the shit-eating grin on Normani’s lips only grows when she casually says, “She has a really nice name, by the way.”

If there’s one way to grab your attention, it’s with that _._

_“What?_ No- you’re _lying_ , you don’t know her name,” you shake your head, refusing to believe Normani’s lies, but then- “Wait, _do you?_ Did she say it? Was I not paying attention again? What is it- Normani, you’re my _best friend,_ you _have_ to tell me.”

With that smug look still on her face, “Now, why would I do that when it’s so much more fun to watch you _not_ know your own girlfriend’s name?”

You’re a second away from fully throttling Normani, but before it gets to that, you reason that there’s _no way_ Normani actually knows. You’ve been together long enough for you to know that she doesn’t just casually mention her own name, because if she did, _you wouldn’t be in this damned predicament._

“Nope,” you shake your head, deciding you don’t believe her, “You don’t know her name.”

With the shrug on her shoulders, she says, “Fine,” nonchalant look on her face, “I guess I totally didn’t just ask for her number and simply asked her how to spell her name, but _yep,”_ she reaches for her drink, slurping it exaggeratedly through the straw, her features making the picture of indifference, “I _definitely_ don’t know her name.”

Your jaw falls slack. You’re quick to reach for her phone - not that Normani even reacts to you - typing in her passcode and keying in your girlfriend’s number, only to find: _****** cabello_

“You’re lying,” you say again, pushing her phone back towards her, “You don’t actually  know her name.”

The smirk on the corner of Normani’s lips is unsettling. “Guess you’ll never find out.”

You want to interrogate her more, continue fighting her on this, but you feel a familiar touch on your shoulder before a soft pair of lips press against your temple. You forget all the frustration from moments ago when you see her, her eyes warm and inviting under the orange light, and you’re unable to stop yourself from simply leaning in at pressing a kiss to her lips when she’s sat down next to you.

Her lips curl in the corners and you find your fingers intertwined with hers. “Sorry,” she murmurs, “My mom was on the phone and wouldn’t stop questioning me about you when I said we were out for lunch.”

You don’t know what takes over you, but you _do_ know that in reply, you hear yourself saying, “I wanna meet your family.” In the background, you hear Normani’s _“Daaamn,”_ but both of you seem set on ignoring that.

“Really?” Her lips quirk, surprised.

You nod, “Yeah, you talk about them a lot and I know they’re really important to you and you’re really important to me, _so…”_

She presses her lips to yours as her answer, murmuring, “Sofi’s gonna love you,” and you can feel her smile against your own.

It’s only when Normani throws a balled up napkin at you that you draw apart from her kiss. “Please stop reminding me how single I am,” she groans, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly, but you revel in Normani’s pain, instead, making a show of tugging your girlfriend into your side, laying your head against her shoulder as she wraps her arm around your waist.

You rubbing in your relationship into Normani’s face may not be equivalent to the amount of frustration she’s managed out of you over this one lunch, but really, at this point, you’ll take what scraps you can get.

 

When you go to meet her family, you’re _sure_ this is the night you’ll find out her name.

And you do.

_At least, you kind of do._

After mild confusion of why her little sister - the pure ball of joy and sunshine that goes by Sofi - calls her _Kaki,_ after you spend a good five minutes pondering upon what name could derive from that nickname, her mother is finally the one to answer all your questions.

When you’re sitting at the dining table with her on your right and Sofi on your other side, when her mother - or Sinu, as she insisted on you calling her - asks, “So, how did you and Karla meet?” all you can think is, _‘Finally.’_

You try to hide the breath of relief that threatens to emerge but you’re unable to contain your smug smile, just _so fucking relieved_ that after a month and then some of trying to act like you don’t _not_ know your own girlfriend’s name, you can finally put that behind you. “Well, being the ever so coordinated person she is, Karla here--”

She groans next to you and at first, you think it’s because your meet-cute story paints her in a bad light, but _of course,_ it’s not that. _“Babe,”_ she whines, pout pulling at her lips with a furrow in her brow and all. “There’s a reason I don’t go by my first name.”

There’s a fork in your hand and you’re kind of tempted to stab yourself with it. Instead, you pretend you knew this all along. You put on a teasing tone, “But why not, _Kaaarla?”_

She hits you square on the arm, but it’s _her_ and she’s never been the strongest person ever, so you barely even flinch at the contact. But with that, you’re set on letting your search for her name go for tonight.

_“Mija!”_ you hear Sinu scold from across the table.  “That’s not nice of you,” she berates, shaking her head.

Her father, Ale, sits quietly next to Sinu, and even though you’ve been warned that he’s generally a quiet man, you want to make a good impression, so you find a way to engage him in conversation. She’s told you how he doesn’t feel as comfortable speaking in English as her mother does, and while you barely speak it anymore now that you’re out of your house, you think it’s time to whip out your Spanish knowledge.

You carry on with the story of how you met in a mix of the two languages, some English words mixed into your Spanish sentences and vice versa. It works immediately with how you can see him tuning into the conversation, and you can’t help the sense of pride that rises in you when he starts joking with you about how she must’ve inherited her clumsiness from her mother.

Beside you, she’s wearing a soft look on her face. When you turn to her, she spares you a tender smile before she huffs about something to her parents, and with your hand in hers, staring at the profile of her face, the line of her nose, the curve that paints her lips, all you can think is that you might really love her. It’s the first time the thought has ever occurred to you. You always knew that your feelings ran deep with her, but seeing her like this, unadulterated joy on her face as she talks passionately to her parents in her mother tongue, you realise it might just be love.

Later, after you bid her parents goodbye, after you give Sofi the tightest hug, promising her you’ll take good care of her sister, when you’re in your apartment in bed with her slipped into your embrace, you fall asleep to the feeling of her around you and to the thought of just how much you love this woman.

 

“Do you want anything from the kitchen?” you hear her say, but you’re too caught on the silhouette she makes that you don’t even respond. She sits by the edge of the bed as she slips on your shirt, the one from that very first day, stain and all. It falls loosely off her shoulder, the exposed tan skin glowing under the dim moonlight. Her hair falls in messy waves, and all you can think is how she makes the _picture_ of _‘just-fucked’_ with this entire look.

_“Psst,”_ you hear at the same time you get something thrown at your face. “Is that a no?”

_“Sorry,”_ you send her an apologetic smile. Still you don’t answer. You’re caught staring at her despite how she casts you a questioning look from over her shoulder and all you can say is, “You’re so pretty.”

Even in the dimly lit room, you catch how her cheeks flush pink. “You’re only saying that because I made you come four times.”

You can’t argue with that. “I mean, _yeah,_ but _also_ you’re gorgeous, so there’s that.”

“If you’re trying to get me back into bed with all this sweet-talking, you underestimate just how much I prioritise my food above everything else.”

Quirking your brow, you make a show of opening your legs the slightest bit, eyes flickering down for a second before you cast a smirk her way.

But she only stretches over to shove at you, scoff on her breath as she says, _“Actual_ food.”

Still, you lean over, cupping her face in your palms and capturing her lips in a gentle kiss. “Get me a slice of that leftover pizza,” you murmur against her lips.

“I was planning on demolishing all the leftovers, but since I love you, I’ll save you a slice,” she says, pecking your lips once more before she slips away, pushing herself off the bed and making her way towards the kitchen.

It’s only when she disappears through your doors do her words fully process in your head.

You play her words over again in your head, _‘but since I love you…’_ she had said, _‘I’ll save you a slice.’_ If you really think about it, you’re not sure which part of the sentence means more. You _know_ how much she loves pizza and the fact she’d save _you_ a slice- well it must really mean she does love you.

And as relieved as you are to hear that your feelings are being returned, the guilt that rises in you outweighs that. You tell yourself not knowing her name is not a big deal, not when you know how to calm her down when she’s feeling especially nervous, or to let her lay in your lap as you play with her hair after a stressful day. You know to help her pick out the peas from her food, you know she likes to listen to music as she sleeps, that her coffee is basically 80% sugar, that she hates when she walks by a puppy and doesn’t get to pat them, and you _know_ that you love her.

You try to convince yourself that in retrospect, a name doesn’t measure up, not when you know this and so much more about her.

Still, when she reemerges balancing a plate in one hand and two mugs in the other wearing nothing but your oversized shirt and a bright smile, you can’t help but wallow in your guilt.

You don’t even notice she’s sat by your side already, nudging your arm as she balances the plate on both your laps.

You’re kind of tuned out and it’s only when you hear her call out, _“Laur,”_ with the poke she presses to your side do you return to the present.

“Sorry,” you apologise, trying to shake yourself out of your stupor, but even you’re aware of how distant you’re being. You can vaguely hear her talking, but you just feel _bad_ and it’s eating up at you and at this point you’re ready to swallow your pride and just _ask her_.

_“Lauren,”_ her voice cuts through your thoughts and force yourself to focus on her. When you turn towards her, smile pressed onto your lips, you notice the hurt that flashes in her eyes. If you weren’t already feeling guilty earlier, you definitely are now. _Especially_ when you hear her say, “Look, I know why you’re being like this, and I’m sorry I made things awkward by saying that, but I’m not sorry I feel that way for you because I really do, and I’m hope I’m not scaring you away with anything but--”

_“I don’t know your name,”_ you say, interrupting her speech and her features change from hurt to simply confused with her brows pressed in a frown as her lips stay slightly parted. You take it as your cue to continue.

“I wasn’t paying attention the first time you must’ve said it because as corny as it sounds, I was kind of too caught on how pretty you are, and I’ve been _trying_ to find out since, but you don’t wear your name at work and Dinah calls you just about every other name besides your own and you don’t go by Karla which I found out thanks to your mom and Normani’s being a little shit by not telling me, and it’s been almost two months since I met you and I’m just annoyed and upset with myself for not knowing the woman I love’s name and--”

“You love me?”

You frown at that. “That’s all you picked up from that?”

She shrugs, lips pulling in the corners. “That and the fact you’re a dummy that doesn’t know my name, but I think that last part’s a lot more important when I was panicking outside because I wasn’t sure if you felt the same.”

“Are you crazy?” you say in disbelief. You move the plate to the nightstand on your side before you turn back to hold her face in your hands, running your thumbs over her cheeks gently. You stare into those deep brown eyes, a tender look in your gaze as you say “How could I not love you?”

She shrugs, and at that, you’re ready to list off all the reasons how it was impossible for you not to love her, but when a teasing grin flirts at her lips, when she says, “I don’t know, kinda like how you can date someone for two months and not know their name, I guess,” you let out an annoyed huff as you roll your eyes and shove her away.

_“Aw, babe,”_ she coos at you, attempting to kiss your pout away, but you’re set on continuing sulking. But there’s a gleeful grin on her lips, her whole face lit up, and you’re helpless to when she wears happiness, so a smile breaks across your lips involuntarily. “See, now this explains a lot.”

When you quirk your brow in question, she continues, “It makes sense now that you get all weird when I say your full name, and when I asked you to fill in that form for me you made that whole excuse on how your handwriting is ugly when you and I both know mine’s _way_ worse. Or that the only time you don’t call me some cute petname is when you say _Cabello._ ” You mean to defend yourself, but she cuts in before you can, “But it _really_ explains how I was never able to make you scream my name when you come. I was really beginning to question my skills--”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence because the pillow you throw at her face muffles her words. “You’re such a cocky shit.”

She only responds with an even cockier smirk.

“Well?” you say, “Aren’t you going to tell me your name, then? _So I can boost your ego and scream your name when you finish me off?”_

There’s a smug look on her face that you want nothing more than to kiss away. But when she replies with a nonchalant, _“Nah,”_ you don’t think she _deserves_ a kiss.

_“Excuse me?”_

“Why’d I do that, when this is way more fun?”

“You sound like Mani,” you note, your tone bitter.

She only grins at you, “How about this,” she proposes, “I won’t tell you my name because you’re all cute when you’re frustrated, but if you can guess my name right, _then_ I’ll tell you.”

You think this through for a moment. You _know_ that she’s stubborn and once she’s set her mind to something, she’s going to see it through. Considering you’ve no way to negotiate yourself out of this, you say, “Catalina.”

She looks at you puzzled for a moment before she realises what you’re doing. “Nope.”

“Ciara?”

“Nah.”

“It starts with a ‘C’, right? I’ve got that down, yeah?”

“Yep.”

_“Charlotte?”_

_“Seriously?”_ she asks incredulously, “You think _Sinuhe_ and _Alejandro_ would name their child Karla _Charlotte_ Cabello?”

You shrug. “Maybe they wanted to diversify your name with some caucasian.”

She pouts at you and this time you don’t stop yourself from kissing it away. “I’m gonna pretend like you didn’t suggest my name could be _Charlotte_ , but do you think we could leave this guessing game for later? I kinda just wanna have some post-L word sex, if you don’t mind.”

And as much as you want to continue with your questions, you can find no other reason to argue with her request.

 

“Cassandra?”

_“Lauren,”_ you hear her warn, her voice muffled.

“Yes or no?”

_“No.”_

“Carla with a ‘C’?”

“Karla _Carla_ Cabello? Seriously? Give my parents _some_ credit here, babe.”

“You’re right,” you say, pausing for a moment to think, then-- “Cara!”

When she stops, your lips pull into an immediate frown. You stare at her with a questioning gaze.

She has her chin propped on top of her intertwined fingers, resting on your pelvis. She looks at you from between your legs with unamused eyes. “I’m _trying_ to eat you out here. Do you mind, like, _not_ saying every other name that isn’t mine while I do so?”

You’re quick to argue, defending, “See, we wouldn’t be in this predicament if you’d just-- _Jesus!”_

When she reemerges a handful of moments later, wiping her chin with the back of her hand, with an obnoxious smirk on her lips she grins, “Not my name, but I guess it’ll do.”

 

When your friend Ally is in town for the week, she insists on meeting the _‘girl you’ve been spamming my feed with’_ and you’d honestly take just about any opportunity to show your girlfriend off, so you arrange a dinner at your place.

Ally brings homemade brownies _(you’re not too sure when she had the time to bake, but it’s_ Ally _so you don’t question it)_ , Normani helps you with the mains, Karla _blank_ Cabello brings a bottle of rosé and Dinah brings herself.

“My presence is enough of a present,” Dinah says upon arriving and she receives a slap on the arm from the brunette next to her.

When she and Ally meet, you’re naïve enough to think you’d _actually_ catch her name.

Because what actually happens when they introduce themselves to each other is that Ally coos about how “You’re the girlfriend I’ve been seeing all over Lauren’s instagram!”, and when Ally says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” her reply is, “Yeah, so didn’t Laur,” with a cheeky grin before she leans in and presumably whispers her name into Ally’s ear.

If you weren’t so deeply in love with her, you’d consider breaking up with her, but since you are, all you do is pout when you hear Ally smile and say, “Pretty name!”

You groan, because apparently you’re just _surrounded_ by _snakes_.

“Why are you all so intent on torturing me?”

Four voices tell you, “You make it so easy,” and you spend the rest of the night pouting while they continue ganging up on you.

 

“Catriona?”

She’s laying her cheek against the flat of your stomach, your fingers combing through her hair as the two of you watch the screen, an episode of _The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_ playing. She shakes her head and you hum thoughtfully, your fingers still carding through her wavy tresses.

“Chiara?” you ask, and she shakes her head once more.

Your knowledge of names starting with C that could be remotely ethnic is beginning to run out. You consider simply calling up her mother and just asking her since you know Sinu  has probably already been told how her daughter’s girlfriend doesn’t know her name, betting on Sinu’s good heart to put you out of your misery.

You’re thinking through your options so deeply that it’s only when she pinches your stomach do you realise she’s saying something.

“Did you hear me?” she asks as she pushes herself to sit up and face you.

Apparently, the look on your face is enough of an answer for her.

She bites down on her laugh. “You really are a dummy.”

“What’d I miss?” you ask cluelessly.

“My name- _again,_ you idiot.”

You shake your head, calling her bluff. “I don’t believe you. You’re enjoying this way too much- no way are you just gonna--”

“Camila,” she says. You pause and you look at her and with that you don’t even doubt for a second that she’s telling the truth.

Because it fits. You look at her hard and it fits. You don’t know how you never thought of it because you look at her and she’s just such a _Camila_. You can’t see her with another name.

_“Camila,”_ you repeat, letting the name turn and rest on your tongue. “Camila.”

“That’s me,” she nods, soft smile on her lips. “Lived up to your imaginations?”

“Above and beyond,” you reply before you lean forward to catch her smile with your kiss. You repeat, _“Camila, Camila, Camila,”_ against her lips, tasting her laugh on your tongue.

With her forehead pressed against yours, “I’m pretty sure _Camila_ is in, like, the top ten Hispanic names for girls,” she tells you, her breath tickling your lips. _“And_ I know for a fact Mani has slipped a couple times and called me Mila in front of you.”

“I’m not sure if you got the memo, but I’m _dumb,”_ you say, and she presses her smile against yours.

Camila _\- Camila, Camila, Camila -_ cups your face with her palms, pulling you closer. “Yeah, and I love you because of it.”

Her airy laugh fans over your skin. “I can’t believe you went three months of practically seeing me every day without actually knowing my name.”

“It wasn’t without a lack of effort on my part,” you defend and you feel her nod against you. “I was even tempted to look through your mail for your name, but I thought that was a bit too much.”

“They address me as Karla Cabello, anyway.”

You wave it off as the two of you draw apart from each other. “It’s in the past. I know your name now.” You know you’re wearing a proud grin on your lips, a child-like excitement on your face especially because she says, “You’re so fucking cute,” before she pecks your lips once more.

“I’m not letting you live this down, though,” she warns you but you couldn’t care less.

You know your girlfriend’s name now and it’s _Camila_ and it’s as beautiful as she is and you’re just glad you can say it loud and proud. And so you do.

“I love you, Camila Cabello,” you say and you’re addicted to how it sounds, how it rolls off your tongue and how it feels to fall from your lips.

Her lips stretch into a giddy smile. “I really like hearing you say my name,” she says and you can’t help but agree.

Tomorrow, you will call up your parents, your siblings, all your friends and post several Instastories, declaring that _“This is my girlfriend, Camila Cabello!”,_ her laugh in the background as you continue repeating her name, feeling like you’ll never grow tired of it.

By the end of the week, you’ll tell her that you’re bored of _Camila,_ that it’s kind of long and tiring to keep on saying.

She’ll tell you that others call her _Mila_ or _Cami,_ or she suggests that you could just stick with _baby_ and as much as you know she loves being called that, you decide otherwise.

“I’m going to call you Camz,” you’ll decide. She’ll look at you for a whole two seconds, a tender smile breaking before she’ll finally say, “I’ll allow it, but only because you’re special.”

But that’s tomorrow and that’s the end of the week. For now, you’re sated, tossing and turning _Camila, Camila, Camila_ in your head, rolling it over your tongue and pressing it against her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> p.s: y'all can find me on wattpad with kinda more work under the same username!!


End file.
